


You Are The Sun

by meiratyn



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Drug Use, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Frottage, Gen, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Neck Kissing, POV Second Person, Pining, Platonic Cuddling, Soulmates, Suicidal Thoughts, Unrequited Love, collection of short drabbles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-20 20:35:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16562699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meiratyn/pseuds/meiratyn
Summary: When the day is done and the crowds are gone, he stays glued to your side. Attached like a fixture of your body. There whether you want him or not. But you have a role to play in all of this, and you play it well. The muse to his creation, the source of his inspiration. And someone who can be loved behind closed doors.





	1. How Cruel Is The Golden Rule?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tsukitheoverlord](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsukitheoverlord/gifts).



> Thank you for clicking on this! 
> 
> This is a highly anachronistic and experimental series of pieces I've been writing primarily for the enjoyment of my friend, tsukitheoverlord, and I. However this bandom is so genuinely kind that I wanted to share these with all of you. I hope you enjoy these too!
> 
> The style I'm experimenting with is heavily based on Cormac McCarthy's writing in the novel The Road, which I highly highly recommend for a beautiful, melancholy experience. Objectively, as my old English teachers would say, this is bad writing. Sentence structure abandoned, dialogue not in quotes. But I enjoyed writing this and I hope with all my heart that you enjoy reading it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick pov, early TTTYG-era.

The day is late and the world is quiet. Those around you are long since asleep. But you return late in the night, holding hands as you climb aboard. 

The high of the last few hours still runs in circles around the two of you, influencing the mood, the conversation, his energy. 

You suggest he sleep. He doesn't want to. 

It's important. 

He never sleeps this early is the push back. 

You insist. 

You lay down with him in the back. He's chattering. He usually does. You usually listen. 

That's the role you've grown accustomed to playing these years. 

Your closeness puts you past his shields and barriers. You've seen beneath the mask of the luchador. 

You don't wonder if that's true for others, because you know it isn't. The world only sees glimpses of the bare fsce you're accustomed to. 

Your answers to his mysteries are never profound, never match the wit he carries. But nonetheless they resolve his questions, one after the other. 

He grins before scooting closer to you. Praises of your light are murmured in the darkness. You don't know what to say. You never do. 

Your own light is dim. It barely glows. What makes you so golden?

But being in pitch black can make even the faintest of lights seem like the sun. 

For a moment the world is still. He's grown quiet. You wonder if he's fallen asleep. 

Until familiar soft lips find your neck, your chin, your own lips. 

You don't move. 

You don't react. 

You never knew how to. 

But he sees your lack of response. He's pulled away, warm lips gone, choked “sorrys” whispered like a clandestine chorus. 

The bed is shaking. 

I'm sorry. 

I'm so sorry. 

I'm so dirty. 

I'm sorry. 

Not your fault but you feel responsible all the same.

Solve this. It's your task. 

You move with stiff limbs, following him to where he's retreated in bed. You pull him to your chest and kiss his hair and the wetness of tears soils your night shirt but you'll worrry about that another time. 

I'm sorry, you want to say. I'm sorry I can't be what you want, you wish you could tell him. 

Because you know the answer would be “you already are”. 


	2. Choke Me Something Awful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick POV, IOH-era.

Like a tumor or a growth, he called himself. His lips attached to your throat. 

Alternating between singing you praises in shuddering whispers and leaving languid wet kisses on your skin. You scarcely move as the map of your body is charted by his hands. 

Routine. 

Almost after every show. 

He stations during the set and never leaves his post. Lithe figure grinds your side. Your throat his microphone. Your body his instrument. 

Dues paid is your excuse. Your joke. 

In bed, he continues to satisfaction. You allow him that. Not more.

Each day you construct a fence. Its location subject to change. 

You stop him when he reaches the precipice. 

Tonight none to be found. 

Slender thighs squeeze your hip and waist. Half hard through two layers. Bare thighs against yours. Hot breathy pants and sloppy kisses wet your neck. 

Evidence of his affection will give you away come dawn but the darkness keeps your secret safe like a corpse. 

Sing for me, he asks you. 

And you do, words of his creation. 

His moans greet your voice. Choked, hoarse.

He doesn't dare say your name, reveal your part in this should there be those who hear. His actions the gimmick to his persona, out of character for you. 

Your hand taken in his, guided to new territory. A thin layer of fabric the mist a barrier to mapping his shores. More naturally divided by the sea.

Hard under your touch. Your voice wavers. You don't stop singing to him. Funny how you can get the words out, hot open mouth and tongue against your jaw. A professional with years of practice.

Desperate ruts, his shirt yanked up to his collarbone. Confessions hissed and half heard. The more he says the less you want to hear. Calling you good like you don't use him right back. 

It's his hand pushing up your own shirt that catches you raw. 

No. Not that. 

You don't push him away. Sensitive cargo as he is. To push would be to break. 

Why not. 

You don't have an answer that would satisfy him. Your own shame centered. 

Thin body practically on top of you everything you're not. 

He's unfettered. A traveler mapping the curved flesh of your stomach like the world’s equator. Rolls connecting your torso like hills to plains. Fingers knead soft thighs. 

Teeth graze your skin. Hot palm pressing against you. 

You shudder and he grinds himself against your hand and were there fences you're sure here they would be but there aren't any to be found when your own want clouds you to them. 

Don't stop singing. Asked like his life depends on it. In a way, you know it does. 

You struggle to control your voice. Cold in your feet and spine. Starved that you're weak to his touch. That it's enough. 

And you're betrayed by your voice in the end. His name on your lips. Your body shaking against him. 

You're embarrassed but he's happy. He smiles into your neck. He uses you to finish and you don't mind. You lay there and listen to him and feel him, the scrapes of tired bedsprings the music of his making.

When he finishes against your hand, you don't push him away. 

You let him remain attached to your side. Fragile, he's easily broken like this. 

When you finally do move, you just turn your head and kiss his hair. Lips meet your chin. Bony fingers knead your shirt, anchoring you in place. 

And there you are only too glad to remain, for once in the satisfaction of being enough for him. 


	3. Trade Baby Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pete POV, early hiatus-era.

_ 1:47 AM _ . Red blinks your alarm. Enemy. Chorus of your failures.

Cooled by the blue of your computer monitor. Companion. 

A poor replacement for both your real companions,  _ de facto _ and  _ paramour _ . 

Acrid scent no longer clinging to your clothes. No post-set sweat to taste. His captive  shirt like the rest of the furniture. Scent stolen by the passing of the days.Tainted from kisses sloppy as a child’s fumbling. 

Much like how you almost tainted him. 

Your words, not his. But you don’t need to hear his voice confirm what you know in your soul to be fact. 

It is. 

The silence is the worst part of loneliness. Sit still, be quiet, not strong skills.. Filling the void gives life to unwanted new friends. Old ones gone but heavy, the final days of a bad cold. 

Your nightly companion sad fabric mirroring your own sins. 

A former resident of your bed, his absence like a kick to the teeth. 

His shirt doesn’t sing to you when you kiss it and it doesn’t tell you to stop when its had enough of your clinging. 

It doesn’t pull you from the track in which your head locks and torments you.

What’s sadder, you or your excuses? 

You could call, but you don’t. Not for no longer having access. What you need he no longer is. Wendy no longer the child. 

Turn face while you remain the heel. 

Seek out his mannequins and imprints. Dip in the bed you kiss like his ghost. 

Your sins sung back to you in the tempo of his voice. Static speakers the middle man connect who you are to what he was. 

In this dark blue world nothing has changed. The illusion shows well. Drop a shout to a whisper and lie back pretending his shirt still smells of him. 

Smile sent by a time traveler unaware his bliss soon to end. 

Focus and create his warmth yourself. 

A shadow isn’t its caster but try, try again. 

Agitate. 

Hair tickle your nose and hard body pushes back and you envy yourself and want what you have/had. 

_ 2:21 AM _ like the dawn doesn’t require your report.. Yet in this pocket time dies and hot body pushes back. 

Sing again to me. 

He doesn’t answer but the computer does. 


	4. Give In Or Just Give Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! Thanks for reading! This is a Patrick pov, late IOH-era.

Hickies left on your neck like he doesn’t care that you’ll be expected to answer for them in the morning. Shamelessly grinding himself against your leg like a dog. 

Another night. 

Most nights it doesn’t bother you. Sometimes you even enjoy it. Tonight you just want to be left alone. 

Why are you like this? 

He stops.

Like what? Voiced tinged with pain. You feel a little guilty but not enough. 

Why do you treat me like your blow up doll? 

Is that what you really think? 

Sometimes. 

He says nothing and shifts to the edge of the bed, sitting up, regaining his dignity. 

You didn’t answer my question. 

He’s silent and you call his name. 

You don’t want to hear the answer, he says. 

You do. You sit up and move to his side. 

He moves away from you. 

I love you, he says. I know you don’t. He doesn’t finish his thought. 

It’s not the answer you expect but you can’t say you’re surprised. You know he writes about you. 

Guilt. 

Maybe you love him too, because you don’t say the first thought in your mind, that you don’t think he knows what love is. 

You follow him to where he is and you rest your hand against his. You say nothing. Any words you can think of would be lies. 

Mostly, you try not to lie to him. Sometimes you wonder if he does to you.

Now isn’t one of those times. 

I didn’t say you had to stop, you tell him. But he moves his hand from yours. 

I don’t know why I’m like this either. 

You realize he wasn’t the one breaching fences tonight. 

He tells you he’s going out for a smoke. You know he doesn’t smoke. But you say nothing. 

You can’t find the words to apologize. You don’t even know if you want to. 

You don’t see him again for the rest of the night, a first for the two of you. 


	5. Pains I Went Through

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TTTYG Era, Pete POV. Thank you to everyone reading and enjoying these! Please let me know what you think! <3

A long night. 

The set didn't go well. 

Your fault. 

Always your fault. 

Asshole calling him a faggot as he sang. Thrown refuse nearly pelting your muse. You drop duty and launch in to defense. 

You're kicked out. 

They say nothing. You know what they think. 

Your fault. 

Always your fault. 

You should haves like a cursed merry go round. 

Van stops for the night. You lie awake. Scenes replayed like a bad cartoon. 

Hours. 

Pit of despair and pain. Tolerance on empty. 

You reach for him.  

He stirs and your guilt amplifies. 

What. 

You struggle with what to say. Cramped as you are. Too loud and they'll hear. 

I need you.  

A sigh in the darkness. 

What is it he asks. Voice soft. 

Weak as you are you go to him. Stop short of clinging. Of embracing. Though you want him. Need him. 

I'm sorry. 

He sighs. 

It's okay. 

No it isn't. 

He shushes you. Someone stirs briefly. 

A moment and he whispers to you. 

I'm glad you did it. You swear he wears a smile. 

You don't understand. 

You're the one who said he doesn't deserve to be heckled, he reminds you. 

For once you're broke for a response. 

He seems to always have the answers. Sent like a divine gift. Or torment of the out of reach. 

You talk before you stop yourself. 

Match lost, unmask. 

Protected by the darkness and your whispers you tell him everything. That you're always angry. You taint all you touch. 

That you're not anything like what people say you are and wish you were. 

That you don't want to live but don't want to die and more want to not exist and it's scary. 

That you don't think whole will make it but he might

You want to tell him that you can't stop thinking about him but you stop short. 

Taken aback as he is. 

Large warm hand around yours.

One by one he draws you solutions. Some make you laugh and he threatens to kick you if you wake them and some are poignant. 

He's concerned. 

It warms you. Twisted as it is. 

You tell him more. Childhood dreams failed. Traumas. Secrets. 

He listens. 

Hand in his. 

Alien to you. He hasn't pushed for favors in turn. 

You hope he doesn't and you cry and he hugs you to his chest and he smells like if everything had gone right from the start. 


End file.
